


A Part To Play

by spicyarnor



Series: The Prince And His Bodyguard [6]
Category: Trails in the Sky, 英雄伝説VI 空の軌跡 | The Legend of Heroes: Sora no Kiseki (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Star Door 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 07:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13654275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyarnor/pseuds/spicyarnor
Summary: It's time for the Hunter of Love to become the prince again, for real this time. Olivier considers what this transition means as he prepares to depart from this country he's come to dearly love and make his long-constructed plans into reality.Takes place during Star Door 8.





	A Part To Play

"Well hello there," Olivier smirks, giving his reflection a long look over.

The bastard prince in the mirror is certainly in top form today, he has to admit. Golden hair cascading over strong shoulders, toned body covered by nothing but a bath towel around his waist, carrying himself with a proud, regal posture, he finds himself a treat to his own eyes. He puts a hand on one hip and shifts his weight, admiring the way his core muscles carry the change. Perhaps he will never meet Master Zechs' strict standards of martial perfection, but well, he is no Vander. He's a lover, not a fighter. A prince, not a warrior. A sharpshooter, not a swordsman. And for what he is, in this moment, he's proud. He thinks he's beautiful.

And yet he's forced to cover this all up. What a true tragedy! All his hard work, all this beauty and no one ever gets to see it. Well. Sometimes they do. But he's read about long-ago kings in faraway lands who wore as much or as little as they wanted to, and he's slightly jealous. Only slightly, though. Being a prodigal prince is hard work enough; the thought of running an entire kingdom himself is absolutely exhausting. Alas. Clothes it is then.

It's time to become the prince again. It's been a long time since he fully committed to that role, and he's sad it has to come to an end. He's been more himself these past months in Liberl than he had truly been in over a decade. But all good things, as they say. Life can be so bittersweet.

If he's going to be Prince Olivert once more, he's going to put on the most beautiful costume Erebonia has ever seen. He's going to play the best role he has ever played. The audience is going to absolutely love him. He's going to put on a show so grand, so unlike anything anyone has ever seen before, people will be calling for encores for decades.

The outfit is all ready for him, fresh from the tailors. It's laid out on the bed of his plush embassy bedroom, neatly arranged and not, Aidios forbid, folded. He walks to the bed, running his fingers over his new coat's lapels with an admiring touch, then drops the towel. A shame the audience isn't looking.

He puts on a new pair of underwear he had tailored specifically as part of this outfit for his return to the Empire. If he's going to act the part he most certainly has to start from the basics to have a sense of full immersion. Even the underwear are fancy, white silk with gilded thread woven through. He turns and appraises himself in the mirror, putting on a little flirtatious pose - oh, yes, this is an excellent start, he thinks, then turns back to his clothing.

Pants are next, also white and made of fine sturdy fabric with a surprising amount of softness to them. The pair of socks matches, but will not be seen. Then a silk shirt the same as he puts on nearly every day, but brand new, fitted for his post-Liberl slightly improved physique. The red tunic is new, matching the coat perfectly. He fastens the dark vest on top of it, not quite used to this many underlayers. But, well, he has never really been one for formal public appearances. He will have to get used to it. As he cinches the vest in at the waist, the weight of this role feels much more clear to him. He takes a breath in, elongating his posture, then nods to himself after a moment.

He sits on the edge of the bed and slips on the new leather boots. The structure is familiar and utilitarian, but the embellishments make them look far more frivolous than comfortable. Which is good, because they are comfortable, but _comfortable_ is not how he wants to appear. Confident. Challenging. Willing to handle discomfort. And, of course, appropriately frivolous. Slightly more frivolous than would be appropriate, in fact - ideal for making weaker opponents fear his status more, and stronger opponents underestimate him. Of course, he's had this all planned out.

He stands, taking the cravat with him over to the mirror, eyes wandering over his finery-clad reflection. "Not bad," he says with a bit of a smile, tossing his hair over a shoulder and hooking the cravat under his collar. He ties it expertly of course, having worn something around his neck for more than half of his life now. It shines bright white like only a brand new garment ever does. He raises an eyebrow at himself, expression controlled and neutral. Oh yes. Not bad at all.

He grabs the hair tie and a brush and begins to comb his hair all into place, taming it to be tied back. Ah, the last of his freedom, pulled tight and shackled at the base of his neck in this small silver-and-red adornment. He fastens it carefully, then brushes his bangs and the loose sections of hair that frame his face into place. _Oooh,_ yes, he does look the part of a truly handsome prince now. He gives his reflection a sultry side glance in the mirror, then blows himself a kiss, eyes still smoldering. Ah yes, that's good enough to send nearly anyone's heart racing. He almost wants to fan himself, nearly seduced by his own image. He makes a mental note to try this on Mueller sometime. It would at least be some good fun. He smiles, tossing his ponytail playfully over his shoulder and then back behind him.

The very last thing remaining is the coat. The mantle of his burden, stiff, ornamented and weighty in more than one sense. He approaches it, bending down and looking over the garment. He runs his fingers over the lapels, holding in a breath.

It's red. Red roses are his favorite, of course, but that is not the inspiration for this coat. It's Imperial red, it's the Reise Arnor red, a clear, blatant advertisement of his royal station to any Erebonian who had ever picked up a newspaper a day in their life. Red, brown and blue, the colors of the national emblem, all represented in his new clothing. It seems somewhat ridiculous to him, considering he will never truly represent the entire nation, but the concept is there, hopefully leaving a lasting image in the minds of those who see them. This man, no matter what you have heard about him, is not simply a carefree spirit to be trifled with. He is the son of the emperor. He is the elder brother and confidante of the Crown Prince. He demands to be taken seriously, whether you like it or not. Whether _he_ likes it or not.

In one way, this truly represents all of the things Olivier has come to resent about the life and role he has been thrust into. It is a blatant show of power, meant to intimidate and ingratiate, something the rotten nobility he hates so much are so desperately fond of. Even on a more basic level, it is the costume of a noble, a royal at that. To wear this is to fully accept that he is Olivert Reise Arnor, Imperial Prince, son of the Emperor, Eugent Reise Arnor. It is to take the role that he had never wanted.

He releases his held breath, slowly.

He will take this burden, this role, this costume, and make it his. He looks over the golden epaulets and their woven silk threads, running his fingers over them. They sparkle dazzlingly, the metal shimmering as he turns his head, smoothly polished. He admires the stitching of the various frequent seams, which is nearly invisible. The back of the coat is fanned out across the bed, and some of the fine gilded embroidery on the back of the coat peeks out, masterfully woven.

It's a work of art. It's beautiful. He is going to take that beauty and run with it. He will take what is good about the nobility - and oh, there really is so much good, even if the bad is so ugly - and leave the rest behind to rot.

This is something that only he can do.

He puts on the coat a sleeve at a time, pulling the ruffles of his sleeves to peek out from the cuffs. The green stripes down the arms were a stylistic choice of his own - they represent the stems of the roses he so loves, a symbol of love yet hardy, strong and dangerous to touch. He adjusts the ornamental belt at his waist, making it tight enough to snugly hold his hips but still allowing his coat to flare out dramatically at the back. He snaps the collar into place, a satisfying sound. He fluffs his cravat gently, so it is no longer under the edges of the coat. He checks the epaulets on his shoulders, making sure that they are indeed both perfectly in place. He runs his hands down his sides, feeling how the fabric lays on him. Then slowly, he turns around.

The man staring back is an Imperial prince for sure, strong, slim, refined. But he is for sure not quite the prince they will be expecting. A smile spreads across his face unbeckoned.

The costume is grand but it's still him. It's him. He takes a full breath, straightening his spine, rolling forward off the balls of his feet then back down again. His mind starts to race, looking at the man in the mirror, both himself and a little something more. Something exciting. The tasks ahead are heavy, practically insurmountable even, but this new him looks like someone who just might be able to accomplish them. And, he thinks, plucking a rose off the dressertop vase, accomplish them with _style._ Appearing calm and confident, he vibrates with excitement and anxiety, nervous but somehow filled with hope.

A sudden loud knock pounds at his door, startling himself out of his reverie.

"Olivier, you're taking _way_ too long in there," Mueller's voice shouts from the other side of the door, a hint of resigned exasperation. "We're going to miss our flight at this rate. Do I have to come drag you out of there? Are you decent?"

"Mueller my love, I am _always_ decent," he purrs, twirling the rose in his fingers then sauntering over to the door with confident poise and undoing the lock.

"More like rarely," the man mutters.

Olivert only chuckles to himself and opens the door, facing him with a bright smile and a hand on his hip. "So? How do I look?"

Mueller's eyes wander over him, his usual critical frown softening to something more open as he takes it all in. Oh, now this is horribly flattering. It nearly makes him blush. Well, actually it does make him blush, just a little.

"I'm impressed," his companion says finally, looking for a moment actually genuinely impressed with him. Such high praise...! "You actually look like a prince. Now if only we could keep your mouth shut long enough for people to think you _are _one."__

__"And you break my heart yet again," Olivert sighs, clutching a hand to his chest. "Still, I am glad to know that my disguise convinces even you," he retorts, turning to go back into the room to gather his things. Mueller grabs his wrist, jerking him to a stop._ _

__"Oh no, there's no time left, you're done in there Olivier. I've already prepared your luggage and your orbal gun. You are _not_ going to be late for your meeting with the queen." _ _

__"B-but...! My dozen roses I was to throw at her feet in gratitude!" he protests, glancing at the rest of the vase._ _

__"Unnecessary and likely disrespectful," Mueller says, dragging him along. "Come on, it's time to say our farewells to everyone at the embassy."_ _

__Olivert sighs again, following, and Mueller releases his wrist, then picks up both of their suitcases. It's an earlier farewell than he would have liked, and perhaps not everything is going to go his way, but..._ _

__"Alright, then," he says, taking his proper place in front of his guard, good posture, adopting all of the regal mannerisms drilled into him as a child. "Let's go give the world a wonderful show."_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Done based off a prompt "Olivier, mirror, musing" by stuntbook.  
> Originally supposed to be a drabble, but I ran with it... again. I'm noticing a bit of a pattern...


End file.
